


Matrimony, or Lack thereof.

by ASOIAFside (UMsArchive)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jon Snow is Not a Targaryen, Marriage of Convenience, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, past Elia/Rhaegar - Freeform, past Lyanna/Robert, way too convenient if you ask me, widow Lyanna, widower Rhaegar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24223351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UMsArchive/pseuds/ASOIAFside
Summary: King Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna are both widowed, and have no interest in changing that status. Their only interests lie in their (almost grown) children, and it's due to them, mostly - as well as some intertwined outside political pressure - that they end up (in)conveniently tying the knot.
Relationships: Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 24
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This concept was keeping me from concentrating on my WIPs so I had to let it out. Sigh. It's just a short story with a few chapters.... I hope. Basically these two having their separate lives until later in life. There is some sexual content, but I'm never too explicit when I do write smut. 
> 
> Not much of a purpose in the narrative. It just is. Just diving into the concept. Idk... it's like 2 AM and I wish for the sweet relief of death.

[ ](https://ibb.co/q18Q17y)

Lady Lyanna keeps her head low, as is appropriate, the black veil over her hair and face most simple and decent, her dress dignified, impeccable. No one could dare say a word against her on _this_ occasion, but they all _thought_ plenty enough, and with Lady Baratheon occasion always showed itself naturally, and the smallest slip could start and avalanche. 

  
  


The Stormlords have liked her well enough when she's first arrived. They admire a resolute will and a wild temper enough. There have been many bawdy jokes about how those traits of her would play in the bedchamber of their young Lord Paramout. Robert would always laugh awkwardly at the jokes, but she would throw him a look - they had better idea of what was going on in those rooms in between them. 

She thought his fumblings uncomfortable, his timely demands in spite of her disposition at times, inconsiderate. And she was not one to keep her opinion to herself. Honestly, she would do it with the tiny hope that things could be improved, not out of maliciousness. She had no wide knowledge of how intimacy could be good. But if this was to be a significant part of her life hereafter ( _their_ life), she couldn't just envision keeping it quiet and letting it be. She was already dreading sundown as it was. 

But Robert didn't have the character to handle criticism well, especially when his masculinity was at stake. Her too frank words would embarrass him, and big men with big pride in themselves don't have the handle of healthily coping with embarrassment. His approach was to turn it around and blame it on her. Her unavailability. Her lack of effort. Her issue in not being able to enjoy herself. 

And most of those same jesting Lords have also stopped liking her quite soon, for they surely admired a bold woman, but not one increasingly disobedient to her man and Lord. They would talk of how she was the ruin of their Lord's reputation, doing things like chastising or contradicting him in public instead of keeping the family's image like a proper wife. 

She has been scarcely a widow for the mandatorily expected 6 months, when a ridiculous concept has started being pushed forward. 

"Marriage?" Lyanna has scoffed. "I see not why I would need marriage. I have not been able to have children for years. And as you may know, my late husband has always tried his hardest, and proved quite fertile in other beds, too. So it ought to be myself. There, a late gift for my poor Lord husband, now that he's gone. I mention a faulty aspect of our marriage, and take all the blame to me. He would have loved to hear it, poor soul."

"Reputation, Milady," one of said Lords has clarified, tactfully not mentioning the rest of her remark. 

"I can't see what kind of marriage could raise me to higher repute than Lady of a whole Kingdom. Unless our widowed King himself may give up celibacy for a barren widow with a temper, of all things." 

"Not… that kind of reputation," the man has spluttered.

And so she's become accustomed quite quickly with the general impression upon her as a newly made widow and freed woman. She was too young, and still handsome enough. And at anytime disreputable rumours would start surrounding her person in regards to any available man in her presence. Or worse. Actual acts of disrepute may follow, as they thought her all capable of it. 

Even her older brother admitted in his letters that 'he could see where those worries are founded' and 'didn't refute the concept as a possibility to be considered'. 

  
  


Lyanna has rolled herself a cigar with that letter. 

***

Rhaegar sighs, still pondering. _Same age, same connections. No known stain on either character_ . Rhaegar scratches his jaw. He always gets the fancy of growing a beard, lets it grow for a while, finds it irritable, shaves the whole thing off, and then starts again; he ought to decide clearly at some point. He runs his hands over his face. _As I ought to decide Dany's future, sooner or later_. 

He doesn't like how the Northern kingdoms have been huddling closer together and away from them. He ought to tie them back to the Crown. That's always a thing of marriages. He's narrowed it down to Robb Stark and Jon Baratheon. Either will do. 

He leans back. This is not a kingly chore he enjoys. He hates making these major decisions about the children on his own. He misses Elia. 

His late wife has been an outstanding partner in life in all matters. Theirs has not been a passionate love affairs, but they have enjoyed a good, comfortable life together. They've made a good team. As parents. As sovereigns. He is not used to have no one he really trusts to turn to for a second opinion. 

For Aegon, he's still waiting. That is a too important a decision to rush. With Rhaenys' choice, he's been lucky. Few years back, when his wife was nursing the pneumonia that no one worried enough about at the time, they've had a Tourney celebrating their daughter's coming of age. 

A too young Willas Tyrell has tried his luck in the lists, being as daring even as to ask the Princess herself for a favour. But the favour did not help him win, and he's fallen badly. But Rhaenys seems to have taken more of a liking to him than they have believed, and as the effect company given to a sick bed tends to do, the mutual liking solidified. 

Being a desirable match, politically, the attangement has been agreed upon, when applied for. And so a date has been set. 

Elia has then died in a few moons' turn, however, and a merry occasion such as a wedding has been postponed. It's only taken place about a year ago, and now he knows he ought to think of which will be the next one. 

  
  


Another problem he's dealing with is, some people would want that to be his own, as of late. 

  
  


Even Arianne Martell has given it a try. He knows why she would take the trouble, though most likely not into the concept of following her late aunt. Her current situation just makes it a favorable play move. She is a heir, but not leading for a while longer. She wants a nice playground. Being Queen of the Seven Kingdoms for some years, having some children on the side. Going home at any convenient time with gained connections and heirs even more closely connected to the Iron Throne than they would've already been otherwise. No need to ever bother with a husband again. He had to admire her tenacity. He's offered Viserys, with the chance for her to remain at Court, as of now. She accepted, as a middle ground. A bargain for himself, too. She is definitely the kind of person you'd rather keep close in the family, he's got to admit. 

  
  


But there have been worse cases. And much younger women. Mostly his daughter's age. Girls high enough of rank and beauty that their fathers would think they deserve to be raised higher, but not high enough to hope they could succeed to get Aegon. 

He is tired of that. Alas, he doesn't want these girls, and a too aggressive call towards the end of these attempts would insult many of those lordly fathers, which political interests keep him from attempting. And he definitely doesn't want more children. That could cause whole _different_ problems for Aegon and Rhaenys.

Lady Cercei has insinuated (in more actions than words) her own interest in giving marriage a second chance (the one older among these candidates). Her Lord husband's timely death (very soon after Elia's) and a pregnancy lasting beyond that and longer than calculations would make sense in those circumstances, makes him even more set in ignoring such allusions than he would've been all the same to begin with. 

He straightens up, his head propped up on his hands and looks over his information once more. The North may not appeal to Dany. She's not used to the cold. And it's too far to see her more than every few years (not exactly a political approach to this decision, alright). The Stormlands have one more thing going in their support: Robert Baratheon is dead, as of late. That means that whenever the marriage takes place, Jon Baratheon, her potential husband, would enter in his rights to the Lordship, and she with him, which gives the couple due independence. 

  
  


Except for- 

_A mother_. That can always be a complication. It can very well be that Lady Baratheon might become a good friend and confidant for Dany, as his own mother and Elia's relationship has quickly developed. But most women are not so quick to be happy to relinquish their position as lady of the house, especially when she's just got rid of the husband and can lead her household how she pleases. 

Unless _she_ marries.

She is young enough still. But then again, she wouldn't. She's got everything she needs. Nothing another husband could offer her. Well, other than- 

But _that_ doesn't have to be a lawful, respectable affair. She's also had no children for all of those years and, knowing Robert’s reputation, not for lack of trying. She can thus enjoy her widowhood as she pleases with no worries. Which would not be the environment he wants to let someone as sensible as his sister in. 

But he's jumping to disrespectful conclusions with Lady Baratheon there. And yet as long as she is nice enough to look at, as he remembers, and young and healthy - other than barren - dangers exist. 

  
  


All things considered, it gives him a thought that may answer all his problems. For this offer to work out for everybody, it ought to be a _double_ offer. 

***

She is a _young_ widow, indeed. With a smooth, creamy complexion and very pretty eyes. Her figure shows a woman lucky to not have been plagued with child bearing every 1-2 years as it often happens, and the skin exposed by the off the shoulder dress doesn't betray her status as a mother of a grown son either. 

"Lady Baratheon, " he greets, even taking the trouble of kissing her hand. 

"Your Grace. A pleasure and honour to have your visit, but a surprise nonetheless." 

"I am sorry for the short notice. But I am here on business. And I would rather such discussion not pass through the hands of Maesters and such. I also believe face to face conversations are much more expedient in matters such as this."

"I am of course honoured to assist you."

"If my information is correct, I am positive your son is not in any way promised as of now?"

"No, indeed. I have been thinking on the matter, but he's fairly young still. He should continue to be a child for a couple more years, I've been telling myself."

  
  


"I agree that much where children are concerned. He would be about… fourteen, I believe?" 

  
  


"Indeed, Your Grace. Fourteen as of two moons ago."

  
  


"But may I remind you, engagements are not marriage. I believe Your Ladyship, too, must have been engaged for years before your marriage."

  
  


"From 13 to 16. But, you know, my husband was years older, of course. It's _boys_ who can wait. With girls, men get always so scared they will outgrow their purpose too soon. Some of my own son's sworn Lords may even give _me_ as a hopeless example."

  
  


"That really is a matter of many other factors, I am sure. My own mother had my youngest sister past her prime, so it's quite a matter of chances. And you would have guessed by now, I presume, that _Daenerys_ would be the intended topic of this discussion, along with your son. I have come with the proposal of an alliance. Princess Daenerys is not yet fourteen herself, and an engagement of a few years more is expected, of course."

  
  


"It is a great honour to receive such an offer, Your Grace. And I assure you of the likewise positive inclination of my son."

"I am glad. My proposal however comes with some doubts, Lady Baratheon, and a, um, condition that pertains my sister's interests."

"I see. Do speak."

"I find everything ideal in this engagement, and my sister's future residence here, except for a little detail - and believe me when I say I mean nothing malicious or offensive, but pure practicality - that is the existence of a young mother whose own position in the family might come in opposition."

"I see. Let me draw my conclusions. The condition for this proposal to come through, is that I marry properly and relinquish my position in Storm's End. You would have thought it through, that I wouldn't pass this opportunity in my son's name, nor am I in the position to, when the offer comes from the Crown. Very well, Your Grace, I believe you also have a groom for me. Already spoken for, most likely. But please do reassure me, that he is not over 50. 60 would definitely be _quite off_ , since you'd have to look again very soon after. I know I cannot ask for anything lower than 50, because that's how aging works for remarrying women. Any men _under_ fifty would see the great chance of a lass in her mid twenties _at most_."

"You are sharp, Milady, and so you see I cannot try my luck in leaving you in charge of the Stormlands, though if it weren't for my sister's interests, I would be glad to. But while your statistics are very correct, I am afraid you are mistaken: I did conduct the miracle of procuring a husband _under_ 50 for you. Just about 40, even."

Lady Baratheon is indeed very sharp. His words and the tone of his voice are enough giveaway for her to visibly guess the man in question. And appear questioning on her side. "An odd choice for such a man, then, if I may say so."

"I will be honest, Lady Baratheon. I am likewise being pressured to remarry, and I want none of my children's playmates, nor to have children the age of my future _grand_ children."

"And you may give your sister a helping hand in the process."

"Indeed."

"However - not to be too forward, but perhaps a good start towards some sort of confidence in between us given our expected change of status - I do suppose Your Grace thinks particularly of the appeal of a _barren_ woman when you say 'no more children'."

He gives Lady Baratheon a longer look. Her pretty eyes. Her smooth shoulders in the sun. It reminds him he's still young. And a celibate for these past years, too. 

"I am _well_ under 50, Milady," he answers. 

  
  


***

For fifteen years she has been kept back by having the heart of a mother, and the statute of a wife. And that may never change, it seems. 

  
  


She writes her brother about the proceedings in place, and even finds it in her to joke that the Gods surely have a dark humor in serving her jesting wishes and humbling her, making it so that the King would actually wish for nothing but a barren widow, and so would raise her to the one higher position in the land that she did not wish for.

  
  


Upon hearing of the news of her upcoming nuptials, the same Lords and Ladies that have talked that she must marry for decency's sake just a moon ago, are now accusing her of indecency, to be remarrying already. But in their faces, when they say before her congratulations instead of what they talk behind her back, she can see the real issue. The latent wariness. In marrying, they would've preferred her to be downgraded, put in her place. Married to a lower grade Lord of the Stormlands, and give consequence to one of them, instead of rising her own even higher. Some have personally desired her, too, that she also knows. 

  
  


For that little satisfaction, she can be thankful to the King. She may be taken in as the property of yet another man, but at least it raises her above the rest of these Lords in the process. It puts her out of their scorn's reach. 

  
  


The ceremony is nothing too public or grandious. Just enough of both to legitimise it. She would hate to hear the supposition of a passionate elopement, given a more discreet affair, really. This is an arrangement like any other, and she would hate to be spoken of as stricken with love; to erase the reality of her abilities and ambitions. 

  
  


_At least he doesn't yet have a belly_ , she thinks as she looks him over, well dressed for the occasion. She really hates the slapping of a belly against her body. She's noticed him handsome - and plenty such - from the time he proposed, of course, but Robert has been handsome enough back in the day, too. _A husband is a husband_. 

  
  


The feast is also a moderate trouble. None of the bedding crowd, either, thankfully. It was kind of a pathetic ritual, the first time around, and she's been 'accidentally' groped one too many times. Just a guards attended walk to the King's rooms. They took separate turns to separate dressing rooms once arrived there, to have all layers peeled off of them with some help. 

Her hair is carefully unpinned. She gets into a fresh nightgown. She is dressed in a nicely embroidered dressing gown over it, made especially for the occasion, that will be just thrown away on the floor in like a couple minutes, most likely. 

When she goes into the bedroom, the King is already there. He is pouring wine in two glasses. She appreciates the civility, but is also thinking about how she would have to be early tomorrow, to be prepared for the (again, moderate) coronation. She finds it a bit funny: _first_ the bedding, _then_ the crown. The Septon could've really just got it over with in one go. Unfair to start her Queenly duties before she is even a Queen. 

  
  


The King hands her a cup. She takes it, civilly going, "Do we toast to us? Or to the children's engagement that was made possible today?" 

"I believe there's space for both happy occasions."

"Their happy occasion is still in the future, so I suppose we've got plenty of time to toast on it."

He leans lower, gingerly cupping her chin with a couple fingers, one fleetingly touching her cheek. "I confess, when I came down to Storm's End decided to ask for your hand, I did not expect _these eyes_."

  
  


She smiles. _Oh, he will start off with some sweet talk_ . The hour is late, and she _would_ like to get some sleep soon, but, really, it's still nicer than going about their business in darkness and silence, she decides. 

  
  


"I remember the day. And I am certain they did not stop _yours_ from travelling further down to my shoulders. It did seem to me it was them that reminded Your Grace of being 'well under 50' ," she teases. 

"See? I did say you're too sharp to be left unsupervised." 

She took another sip from her cup and then reached her hand out to hand it to him to hold for the moment. He accepted it without question, though visibly slightly confused. She then took a few steps back, eyes trained on him, and pulled at the knot of the dressing gown, taking it off, a simple linen nightgown beneath. Partly, she wants to get it over it. But there's a side of her that's curious about how the most powerful man in the land would behave in a setting like this. And a side of her that enjoys his careful, intrigued look on her. He's more handsome than Robert, after all, and still fit and well groomed besides. 

She then pulls at the top of the nightgown, elastic and easy to pull off her shoulders. But he's discarded their cups and comes forth, stopping her there, gently pushing her hands down. She concedes, allowing him to take the next step as he pleases. 

He walks behind her, and his warm hands envelope the shoulders that have caught his eyes before. They are softer than she would expect from a swordsman. He leans in and kisses the skin from shoulder to neck slowly, and without thinking she tilts her head to give him more liberty. He takes the unintended invitation, moving up, until his short beard is a tickle behind her ear. She's taken aback by the little inward bout of chills that such a small thing would give her. He then goes through the - more satisfying in his hands, most likely - little chore of running his hands from her shoulder and down her arms to slowly push down the nightgown with the movement, the cloth gathering together at her feet. 

She turns round to face him, boldly saying, "Your turn." She hates that act of artificial dominance when the man gets a woman vulnerably naked, while he stays there fully clothed. 

He raises one eyebrow, going for the knot of his own robe, but she's beaten him to it, pulling at it with no hurry, and she's sure he is not bothered at all, as it gives him the time to look her naked body over freely, and she is not embarrassed. She is not twenty anymore. But she's got the stretch marks from only one birth, and the firmness of skin from years of enjoying extensive exercise. 

She goes forth and unabashedly pulls up his own nightgown, too, and shamelessly does her own head to toe lookover. He is minding his own, already touching her breasts. She feeds her own curiosity, sliding her hand across the length of his cock and gently grasping at the head. 

With Robert there's been an awkward beginning, and by the time she's become curious about the feel of it, she wouldn't have taken the pride hit of touching his in any purposeful manner. 

He lets out a breath, having cupped the nape of her neck in the meantime, and leaned in to kiss her mouth. 

  
  


She goes on repeating the motion with her hand, finding she likes the feel of its firmness in her grasp. And because she believes a slight unevenness in his breath has something to do with it and she enjoys the idea. But a short while later, he catches her wrist, his beard tickling her cheek as his lips move over to her ear to closely whisper, in such a cheeky tone she's taken aback for a moment, and almost bashful, "If you tell none about the King bending the knee, I won't tell on you either." 

She doesn't register it fully, even, because she doesn't understand it well, honestly. What would he be doing kneeling? Or is that what he actually said at all? 

But she is not left wondering for long, as he actually submerges, licking on a nipple on the way down, just enough to tease - and tease it does. But her foremost thoughts remain wondering on where his actions follow, actually on his knees, pushing her legs a bit further apart, kissing the inside of her thighs and then _oh_ \- 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, updating only after many months have passed? It's more likely than you think.

[ ](https://imgbb.com/)

When she wakes up - _is unwillingly woken_ by her chambermaids, truly - the room is still dark, and she lays on the bed alone. When they part the curtains, she sees it's not much brighter outside either, so she finds consolation in the fact that she isn't the only one sleeping least in between herself and _him_. Unless he literally sat up in the night at some point and went to sleep someplace else so he wouldn't be disturbed by all this eventual ruckus. Would he have such a habit? She wouldn't know. She doesn't _know_ _him_.

The night before is still vague. And she is not sure whether it let her any wiser in regards to any foresight regarding what to expect of this marriage. But she's got the time to think about it plenty as her ladies will be fiddling with her body. Plaiting her hair fancily enough to sit a crown on it will in itself take two hours at least. 

But first they bathe her - they would expect she's in need of, after her wedding night, she realizes. Well… she is. 

It has been… _pleasant_ . Well, perhaps that's not the word. 'Pleasant' is what you call sharing tea with a fellow Lady that doesn't fully bore you or overstays her welcome. For last night, she doesn't exactly have a word, though something about 'pleasing' would be in there. Not only for its accuracy, but also the strangeness of its… deliberation. She remembers moments of clarity, thinking, _That one’s for his sake, and this one's for mine._

She doesn't know whether that has been a different side of him. Something calculated, controlled, even during the acts that he's seemed to get lost in at certain points. The King has taken her slowly, prolonging the beginnings preceding the actual act, as befits a wedding night. Fairly put, not her _first_ wedding night. Robert has drunk for his happiness too much to actually play his part well in it. Then he was in a hurry as if it would have been a tragedy to let that one night of their marriage pass unconsummated. 

  
  


But that’s beyond the point.

  
  


She looks in the mirror, checking on her appearance’s progress. She ought to give it to the maidens’ expertise: they may actually be on the right track to making her look like a Queen. She can only hope this is not to be expected of her everyday. Waking up before dawn to be pampered into a look worthy of her station, in order not to make a jest out of her royal husband, as she’s been frequently accused of doing on her worse days to late Lord Baratheon. She is no scavenger, but she’s been known to ‘adorn’ her dresses with actually useful thick leather belts over more ‘appropriate’ choices like lace, or to tie up her dress in makeshift breeches when she deemed it necessary - she can’t stand riding sidesaddle, for one, mind you. And she surely doesn’t normally take the time for too overly fancy or coquette braids for her hair. She remembers groaning to hear of that late announced visit of the King, just for knowing she ought to put that couple hours effort for the high rate occasion.

  
  


And so her thoughts drift back to the King.

_What does he even want of me?_ Because that is what really matters, isn’t it? The most important question to consider when pondering on what she might get out of this arrangement. For it is very rare for it to be otherwise. A marriage’s existence and future is in the hand of the man. To make wishful plans and assumptions as a woman is just that - making wishful plans and assumptions.

_And what are my own plans and assumptions, anyway?_ As always, she just does what she ought to do. And to think too much of it beyond that would be foolish. He’s made it clear in their initial discussion that it’s a most clear cut arrangement, but also that he might as well make his claims of her remaining beauty and youth, if and when it pleases him to. An almost undignified one on her side, but, once again, it is like this. Especially in their current time of life. And, then again, she’s had her share of being a younger maid taken for a wife by a man declaring himself violently in love with her and vowing to make her the happiest of women. In the long run, it did not impress her much. 

With one last look in the mirror, she rises to be dressed. Yesterday’s garments have been symbolically in the colours of House Stark - a silly detail in her situation, for who would still look at her as Stark maid? That’s mostly been something to remember in her heart, in the past years. It has been weird, almost eerie to wear a “maiden’s cloak” with the grey direwolf once again. 

  
  


But today’s garments are to be Targaryen colours. Another silly, exaggerated detail, if you ask her. All those years of being made to don the Baratheon colours and sometimes even sigil, and they’ve draped her all over again in a Stark maiden’s clothes as soon as she was widowed and put back to use, leaving the boy she bore for said House behind to actually wear the colours as someone who has a right over them. She’s never had any. She is not even sure she would have wanted to - but it’s quite the strange realisation to have, regardless.

The crown they put on her head is not that of late Queen Elia, and they have mutually agreed it’s best for it not to be, but rather set it aside for Aegon’s own future Queen, without taking an awkward detour on some unrelated woman’s head, making for an odd exchange if he were to have to ask for it back if King Rhaegar is to die before Lyanna did. That event will be odd for her regardless, for when it happens she is nothing, and will have even less of a place in King’s Landing than she did at Storm’s End. There, she has a boy. Here, only another woman’s own son. _Who will ship me back to my boy’s castle, where the Princess Daenerys would have long since taken over, and I will just…. be there. And in the tragic event that something happened to Jon - what then_? Will she be draped in white and grey all over, and sent back to her first home, having given any relevant Houses all she could give?

She sighs, readying her face for charming smiles. These are dark thoughts. And today she has yet another role to play. So she accepts the King’s hand helping her up, and moves on to receive another round of congratulations - this same set of people have had to congratulate her on her marriage only yesterday, too, so this must be getting tedious for everybody. _Glad you are barren,_ many faces seem to say _, else we would have to congratulate you on a pregnancy as well too very soon, and this is all too damn excessive_.

Ser Jaime Lannister seems to be among the most bored ones. But he’s got a complicated history with the Crown, so he probably ought to put the effort to play nice. A never heard of before ‘retired Kingsguard’. _Released from duty for services rendered to the Crown_. Everyone knows those services were turning his sword against the older King, when he started mumbling about burning the whole Red Keep down to reawaken the skeletal dragons through blood sacrifice, or something like it. Crown Prince Rhaegar has been summoned, and he's spared both the old King's life and that of the Knight, and, although whispers have circulated in whether such ascension was honorable, the idea of the Reach, Dorne and - rumoured to have been bought under the table with Ser Jaime's reinstallment at Casterly Rock - Westerland hosts behind the Prince's back has had the rest of the realm agreeing to recognise it as lawfully conducted. 

Lady Lysa of House Tully doesn't seem to have managed to become dear to him, in spite of four little golden heads that she's provided him with. But both seem besotted enough with the children themselves as to not be bothered by the other having a hand in it. 

  
  


King Rhaegar’s very handsome and gallant self walks at her side, sometimes mindlessly pressing his hand against her waist, sometimes giving her a benevolent look from the corner of his eye, and one could almost believe he is actually some happily married man. 

  
  


Except when he retracts his arm he does it almost stiffly, and when his eyes shift away, it looks sudden and almost unkind to her. He acts attentive and obliging, and in another moment he's suddenly impatient and furtive. He comfortably leans into her personal space to say something amusing in a lower voice about some attending Lord or Lady, but when she responds in kind, he sort of retreats soon, as if Lyanna were the one crossing some invisible boundary.

For the last hours of the feast, he’s even quite ignored her presence altogether, even excusing himself to sit further away with the men during a concert, while she kept company with the many Ladies at Court. And she couldn’t complain for a lack of attention. Many of these Ladies she expects to vy for Lyanna’s influence over the next few years, just like those of the Stormlands have done for a while, whilst her word weighted something meaningful to Robert, and their husbands stayed in need of papers to be signed.

“The King summons us often to spend some time in Court, and I am sure we will be great friends, just like I have been for dear Queen Elia,” Lady Cersei of Oldtown - wife to Ser Baelor, heir to the Hightower estate - smiles sweetly, holding her hand most graciously and friendly.

She wouldn’t bet too much on the affections of a Lady whose friendship is granted based on characteristics such as ‘being Queen’. The reaction of Lady Ashara, that of leaving Court with her husband upon hearing of the arrival of a new wife sounds more of an understandable sort from someone who’s been a close confidante of the late Queen Elia. But one woman like her, always ready to impart the newest gossip for the sake of budding with other women of influence will surely have her uses.

  
  


“ _Lady_ Helena,” she says in a whisper, and points at the quite pretty woman on the stage. “Not any ‘Lady’, really, but His Grace would have her treated respectfully. The King’s own favorite, regardless.”

  
  


“Favorite?” Lyanna pipes up. She never heard of anything like it, but then again, she’s never kept up with gossip from Court, and rarely visited. But these sort of scandals usually make rounds through the whole of the realm.

  
  


“Oh, yes. Nothing public, of course. But she’s been here for nearly ten years. Beyond what mere musical talents may get one. And the King has bestowed plenty on her. There were some hints given by Queen Elia herself by the fifth year’s mark, when the rumours were at their thickest, that mayhaps Lady Helena should reach the end of her contract - Helena was taking a break from public life for being with child, you see - but the King apparently would not hear of it. And so Helena returned, with a little girl who looks all like the mother - and nothing like anyone else, to many’s relief. And His Grace denied any connection to the child, of course. But he quite dotes on her, mind you.”

Lyanna is not exactly surprised. That would not be the word. This just sounds like how reality works, to her. If, anything, the surprise ought to be for there being _only one_ such story. _Or maybe this is just the most outstanding one_ . “Why, she must still be quite very young, if looks do not deceive.” _Younger than myself, for sure_. Her words are clear and unwavering, but she feels that bud of restrained anger deep inside. It’s a familiar one, to her. She’s felt it many times, and long after she stopped caring at all for Robert as a man.

“Not yet 25,” Lady Cersei supplies helpfully. Lyanna suspects, in spite of her friendly ways, she is all delighted to nail these pins of information into Lyanna’s skin.

  
  


Lyanna pays a bit more attention to the King’s mannerism during the concert. He is very much enraptured with the singing, and paying little mind to the Lords he’s insisted to sit beside. _And so the wife would just have been a bother while she’s around to be admired, is that it_ ? She also pays Lady Helena a bit more attention. She is pretty enough, but there are much prettier women in these rooms alone, if she’s to be honest. But her _voice_ , while singing, _is_ almost otherworldly. Before Lady Cersei’s interruption, the song has almost brought tears to Lyanna’s eyes, for she sang it with great fervour. _Well, they do say the King loves music above anything else_. 

If it were her beauty or youth keeping the man enraptured, she would have given Lady Helena not above 2 years before her time came to an end, but if her voice is to never waver, that’s another story. If his previous wife of less years than this singer has been around so far, at the time, could not convince him to give her up, 

_Why, this is how things are_ . To her own relish, she finds herself rather calm in that assessment. Which is for the best of her well being. From the corner of her eye, she disappointedly finds His Grace well in his cups, too. _So here we go again. At least I had a lovely wedding night_.

Everybody knows there's usually a whole lot of difference between what a man marries and what a man wants. At least this one has never attempted to make her believe otherwise.

  
  


When it’s appropriate to, she finally retires, and bids the chambermaids to unburden her of all these adornments as quickly as humanly possible. But when the last knot in her hair has been dealt with, and the sight of her bed is as sweet as can be, there’s a knock on the door. The King asks for her company, it appears. Uncommonly, it is _her_ who is asked to make the effort of walking to his rooms, too, instead of the husband’s visit.

It’s as unwelcome and inconvenient as can be, and it must show on her face, too, for the messenger even gives her an apologetic look. But she puts on a dressing gown over her clean nightdress - the same from her wedding night - and miserably follows the person sent to fetch her.

_Couldn’t he bother the singer he was eyeing with so much interest an hour ago?_ she cannot help but think grudgingly. But perhaps he cares more about a longtime mistress’ resting times and comfort, and Lyanna would hence then do better for satisfying this immediate - and likely hasty and clumsy, by the looks of his ebriety, at the time she left him - needs right now. Nothing she abhors more than heavy drunkenness where intimacy is concerned, and the King and she are not yet on terms where she can tell him that the Others can deal with his cock when he’s in such a dreary state, for all she cares. 

  
  


He doesn’t even bother to put any effort in welcoming her for the facade of it. She finds him laying on his back, on the right side of his bed. His fingers are intertwined over his stomach, and his eyes are closed, and for a few moments she thinks she may have dodged that arrow, that he has fallen asleep, but he seems to have heard her coming, and, half opening an eye, he pats the other side of the bed.

She privately grits her teeth. _What am I, a dog_? But she is so tired. More so than the night before. And it’s not like he’s in the state to last long. So she walks over there and lays down on her side, turned towards him expectantly, just wanting to be done with it.

  
  


She is relieved to find him at least giving the _impression_ of freshness. He must have dragged himself to a tub of water, or ordered himself to be dragged. From her experience with Robert, there's no such thing as forcing a man to wash when they're like this. Once, she sent men servants to help him in, and he didn't take kindly to it. Another time, she tried with a maidservant. He's ended up coaxing the girl into the bath with him. Needless to say, she never cared to try again, and let him whine and rage every time when she refused him access to her rooms whenever he decided to end his day being drunk and filthy.

He regards her strangely, but does not move to do anything in particular. She wonders if he expects her alone to ‘take care of it’. Which irritates her more. “Have you called me up for a lovely nightly conversation?” she cannot stop herself from needling him oh so sweetly.

“As of now, I am not good for talking,“ he replies with a small, soft amused smile, and just a bit of slurring to his words.

“Not good for talking, and you think of being good for something else?”

With a drunk Robert, her voice would have been harsher. With Robert, _his_ reaction would have been harsher with the implication behind her words, too. 

She would normally have no patience for the drink, but the King is not vulgar or angry by it. It may be by rarer consumption, but there's not the reek to his breath, either - he may also have brushed his teeth as well, but not even that was of help to Robert after too many nights like this, as if the reek had set permanently somewhere in the back of his throat. No slick wetness and sickly sweetness of sweat that Robert's growing fatness would intensify. His garb smells fresh, his skin smells of clean flesh. 

There's all the mischief in the hilarity of witnessing a 'powerful man' in this pitiful state, and none of the disgust. 

“We’re going on a hunt early in the morrow,” he follows, and drags the blankets over himself and her alike, the implication of ‘get some sleep while you can’ not at all discreet. And then he seems to actually go to sleep. Lyanna stands there with some relief, and some indignation, too, for many reasons. The fact that he’s informing her at the last minute that she ought to accompany him on a hunt in mere hours is merely last on the list.

***

The King is not even particularly fond of hunting, she finds out in the morning, in a furtive gossip exchange, after she’s painstakingly gotten ready for the occasion in record time. His Grace has woken earlier than herself, but did not take the trouble of rousing her as well. Half an hour before they were set to leave, a maidservant has been sent to see if she is ‘ready’. Like Seven Hells she was.

Lady Cersei manages to look magnificent in her riding dress and hat, as she is sharing that information, having obviously put the time and attention into it, her hair pinned to the side in a very intricate way, if you had a woman’s eye, but giving the impression of a ‘relaxed’ look, colours and jewellery all stylishly assorted. 

  
  


Apparently, it’s far from a favorite pastime of his, but having been quite on the bad side of tipsy the other night, he’s complacently let himself be coaxed into making said plans by some of his Lords, and he is not a man to go back on his word once he’s given it. 

Lyanna herself doesn’t look as royal as she did before today. As the maid was fretting in a panic looking in between Lyanna’s state of looks and the time on the clock, asking which riding clothes to get for her, the new and very irritated Queen had groaned a request for the most ‘noble husband ridiculing’ alternative she could think of at the time. A pair of black breeches with legs so wide they could almost make for a dress, only they obviously don’t. 

A quite old shirt with manly fringes she’s stolen from Robert a few years back, and a rough spun jacket with a thick overbearing leather belt she mostly kept around for visiting the stables. The belt, tightening her middle, was - in the least - the only thing giving her body a sense of a womanly shape. Her hair is in a most plain plait on her side, and her cheeks are already reddened from the wind, for she didn’t bother to choose a hat. Her eyes feel a bit teary, too, from its sharpness. It’s all due to the proximity of the sea, but it will get better once they enter the ticker side of the forest. After all those years at Storm’s End, she would know. Choosing jewellery would have only made her look ridiculous by causing a silly contrast, most of all something like her crown, so she’s opted out of such distinctions of rank, too.

  
  


She sees the man himself giving her a sort of a queer look amongst others, as she joins in, not even bothering to keep a more feminine seat on her horse, for what would be the point? She gives him a bold look, tilting her head with a raised eyebrow, daring him to say something. He doesn’t, though his lips twitch in some way as he greets and welcomes her, and even fleetingly takes and kisses her hand, but she hopes he did just decide never to invite her again.

  
  


The King himself looks as perfectly groomed on a hunt as she saw him on more pretentious occasions, serving only to her aggravation, and bears no clear signs of his own ungracious state from the night before but for the slightly reddened whites of the eye. The stubble on his cheek is probably out of neglect to shave, but it looks - annoyingly - intentionally nice. That, and the sharpness of his bones, gives the otherwise soft prettiness of his features a more manly sort of attractiveness. Right now, it personally rubs her the wrong way, though. It’s as if the whole contrast in between them at this moment serves to tell the exact difference in their roles and station, at this time and from now on.

She only has to suffer it for a short while, though, for soon after the horn sounds, she takes a different route from his, and not only out of spite. Whatever the King’s attendant’s impression seems to be, Lyanna would vow, based on the length of her _own_ expertise, that the trail of the animal is going the way _she’s_ chosen, not theirs.

Not even fifteen minutes later, she smirks to figure out she’s been right. One of the King’s men that’s kept close to her for protection and company sounds the horn, alerting the rest to the actual right track, but she is not about to wait like a good girl for the men to claim the deer _she_ was the one to find. And so she bids the attendant to pass his own bow and arrows, and in such a roughly voiced demand in the heat of the moment that he doesn’t hesitate for a second. Keeping her legs in a strong hold around the horse’s body, she lets go of the reins almost completely, trusting Dancer to work with her as the faithful mare usually does, readying her weapon. The first loosened arrow misses, ending up dug into the trunk of a tree the animal has skirted around to avoid it. Lyanna clicks her tongue, annoyed. 

But the second and third hit right at home, and she bids Dancer to come to a halt. Lyanna’s feet hit the ground in a swift, practised move, a mischievous smile on her lips, now demanding the speechless attendant’s sword to relieve the now laying animal of its misery if it might still be alive. She pushes the bits of her come loose out of her face. Her heart is pumping wildly with the adrenaline of the hunt; she’s acting on a hunter’s instinct alone at this point - _intent_.

She lashes without thinking it through when _he_ grabs her unexpectedly. He wasn’t rough or ill meaning. He didn’t mean to scare or even unsettle her, she realizes as soon as it happens. She’s just been too out of it to notice his presence, and now here she is, pointing a naked blade at the King’s chest. 

She’s too struck with herself to do anything to remedy it right away, and her eyes glance behind him to see the two Kingsguard behind him also having acted on their own instinct when such a sudden, unexpected threat to the King’s safety is posed. Taking out their own swords. Pointing them at _her_.

  
  


To find herself in such a peculiar set of circumstances, she can only let out a high pitched laugh, something outrageous to its sound, almost hysterical. And as uncomfortable time passes while she ponders on the best of ways to express an ‘oops’ kind of reaction, she decides to go with the first defusing idea going through her mind as she looks at his handsome dumbstruck face. Pointing the sword away without really letting go of it, she grabs him by the neckline of his jacket and pulls him in for a kiss, her free hand wrapping around his neck.

Then, having another outrageous idea, for the adrenaline is keeping her feeling mayhaps too daring, she pulls away just when he’s most responsive to the inducement, and points the sword at him all over again, this time from a safer distance. Posing a naked, shameless dare.

He looks back at her, at first once again dumbstruck, but finally giving it a laughter of his own, though an incredulously sounding sort. He takes out his own sword, and they share a few tentative parries.

The atmosphere changes as their exchange intensifies. She only gets a glance of their men in attendance kind of slowly getting away, disappearing from sight as they seem to notice it, too. They exchange a few tantalising jabs, but she hardly remembers what they were. Only a dizzying as they go in circles, both literally and in whole different meanings. Her heart feels wilder than the hunt itself has made it. Locks of hair are flying all in her face. A drop of sweat licks at the side of his temple. Such a minor detail she only gets to notice because he is suddenly so very close, she realises.

She supposes his own sword is gone, for he is free to use both his hands to raise both her arms above her head, pushing her against a tree she didn’t even notice behind her. Her own blade falls out of her grip, and the rest of it is just a whirlwind of messed up hair and sweaty skin, and grinning at the fact that he doesn’t look so annoyingly flawless anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> ...and yeah, Robert is the type of guy to never give head and potentially let a woman live in ignorance like that. He is the DJ Kaleb of ASOIAF. Idk. It's just written on his face, and doodled on his tombstone one stormy night by Cercei.


End file.
